


Quarantine

by Starlightify



Series: repairing the world [17]
Category: DCU
Genre: Alien Biology, Autism, Bruce Wayne/Selina Kyle (mentioned) - Freeform, Claustrophobia, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Lois Lane/Selina Kyle (mentioned), M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Sickfic, bruce wayne realizes that he has Feelings, neurodivergent character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-24
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-17 01:44:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8125654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlightify/pseuds/Starlightify
Summary: Clark gets sick for the first time in his life. Bruce has some Realizations. Lois, as always, is amazing and a little evil-minded.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So we actually started writing this fic almost IMMEDIATELY after "Say it with Flowers," but it just would. Not. End. We've been working on it for over a month and a half at this point, and finally got it finished... a week? Two weeks? Ago. Enjoy the fruits of our labor, friends.

The mission went smoothly, which really should have been Clark’s first hint that something bad was going to happen. Missions never go smoothly. It’s like all of the members of the Justice League have the as-yet undiscovered power of amplifying the effects of Murphy’s Law, a power that only gets stronger when they work together. If they weren’t such a good team, Clark would consider calling for them to disband based on that reasoning alone.

(Okay, he wouldn’t. You don’t call for a family to disband, regardless of whether everyone seems prone to getting involved in the weirdest catastrophes.)

But this mission goes smoothly. Better than expected, even, which is a rarity. Clark expected it to take a week, at least – he asked for two weeks off in case the call for diplomatic aid was actually a ruse so one or more of them could be kidnapped or killed, or in case the talks broke down and they got stranded in hostile space, or in case they were ambushed on the way there or back, because he has damn well learned from all the other times – but the Thalamian and Materi dignitaries had been remarkably civil. Calling in the Justice League hadn’t been a last-ditch effort when the peace talks were 90% of the way to failure. They just wanted outside perspective on an issue regarding territory on the shared colony world of Sesamos, and requested the assistance of John and his allies. 

John chose Bruce and Clark to go with him. They were gone for six days, including travel time. In fact, half of the last day on Sesamos was just a celebration of the peace talks’ success. It was a nice change of pace, and maybe that should have made Clark suspicious, but cynical pessimism is Bruce’s job.

Clark feels a little run down afterwards, but that’s pretty standard. Sesamos orbits a red sun, so he’s been using his sun lamp to recharge his powers. It’s not quite the same as real sunlight from a yellow star, but it’s enough to keep him going.

What’s less standard is the way his throat feels sort of sticky, and he feels like he’s been punched in the eyes by Metallo.

As soon as he recognizes that this is more than the general blah feeling caused by being away from a yellow sun, he tells Bruce. Bruce will know what to do, and even if he doesn’t, he’ll pretend convincingly enough that Clark will be less scared.

He tells Bruce his symptoms. Bruce gives him a calculating look, then straps on a full-face mask he pulls from… somewhere, and orders Clark to the quarantine in the infirmary. Clark goes.

A few minutes after he sits down on the bed in quarantine, kicking his feet in the air idly, the screen beside the bed flickers to life. It’s Bruce. He’s still wearing the full-face mask.

“You’ve never contracted a human illness, correct?”

Oh.

“I have not,” Clark confirms. He hears keys click. Bruce taking notes, probably.

“When did the first symptoms manifest?”

“I’m not sure. It’s hard to tell what could have been… whatever this is, and what was just being away from the sun.”

“Have your powers been affected?”

Clark floats a few inches above the bed, looks through the walls of the ship, vibrates in place rapidly, and heats and cools his hand in quick succession. There are no objects in the room that look unimportant enough for him to test whether he’s still invulnerable and still as strong. “I don’t think so.”

“Hrm.” The keys click again. “We’ll reach the Watchtower in an hour. Once we get there, I’m going to have you Zeta Beamed directly to a quarantine room. In the meantime, do you need anything?”

Clark considers. “Can I have my lamp?” He’s not really hungry… which, actually, may be a symptom itself, he hasn’t eaten recently and normally it doesn’t take long at all for him to develop an appetite. He has a bed. He has the screen – there may be no Wi-Fi in deep space, but the ship does have a pretty impressive ebook library, he’s sure he can find something interesting. In the meantime, maybe more sunlight will help.

“Yes.” A few more key clicks. “In the cabinet beside you, there should be vials. Spit in one and cap it for processing.”

“Okay.”

Clark finds a vial and sucks on his tongue to work up enough saliva. Then he spits. It’s thicker than normal, and has whitish streaks in it. That’s probably not good.

Is this what being sick is like? It’s different than he imagined. He thought it would feel like allergies – they’re both immune responses, after all. Or maybe like kryptonite poisoning. But this is… sort of like those and not like those. Sinus pressure from his allergies makes his eyes hurt, sometimes, but his sinuses don’t really feel different right now. Just his eyes. And kryptonite poisoning makes him feel low-energy and sore, but this feels less like being liquefied and microwaved and more… achy.

It’s not that he doesn’t know what being sick is like, in concept. His parents are human. Most of his friends are human. He’s been around sick people, taken care of sick people. He has just never, personally, been sick, and once he found out more about his origins, he didn’t really expect to be. Kryptonian diseases died with Krypton, and diseases that can be transmitted between species from the same planet are rare enough. Diseases that can be transmitted between species from different planets? Practically impossible.

But then, ‘practically impossible’ does seem to be a running theme in his life.

As Clark sees it, there are four possible explanations. One, this is nothing but a delayed reaction to something on Sesamos, he’s not sick, and they’ll all have a good laugh about this someday. Two, he somehow managed to find the one planet in the galaxy where a Kryptonian disease had survived for decades after the destruction of Krypton, waiting to infect him. Three, his biology was similar enough to one of the beings living on Sesamos that a disease that had evolved to prey on another species was able to infect him. Or four, this is not an organically developed sickness, and he’s been infected with something deliberately. 

He really hopes it’s not the fourth option. The Thalamians and the Materi had been so genuinely kind and he can’t imagine them doing something like this, but he’s been wrong before.

A green glow heralds John’s arrival. He’s encased in a thick shield, hovering slightly off the ground. Clark’s sun lamp trails behind John, also encased in a shield.

“How’re you feeling?” John asks.

Clark shrugs. “A little strange, but alright in general. How do I…” he trails off, then gestures vaguely at the transparent but very solid walls surrounding the quarantine. “I’ve never had to use this from the inside.” Not precisely true. But every other time he’s been in here, he’s been unconscious and/or badly injured, which means someone else had been in here with him, and they’d taken any necessary samples back out with them through the decontamination locker. Now, he’s not sure whether John is coming in, or he’s supposed to go out, or if he should leave the sample in the locker and John will go in and get it, or…

John answers his question by wrapping the vial in its own shield and floating it through the doors into the decontamination locker. He floats the sun lamp in the same way. “Sorry I can’t come in,” he says. “But if you are infected with something, we can’t be sure the rest of us aren’t at risk.”

“I understand,” Clark says. “Is there anything else I need to do?”

“Hooking yourself up to the monitors couldn’t hurt,” John says, after a moment of consideration. “You need anything else from me?”

Clark almost says ‘No’ automatically, but manages to catch the word before it can leave his throat. It’s really hitting him, that he’s going to spend who knows how long in quarantine, that something is probably actually wrong with him. Seeing John through the walls drives home the fact of his isolation.

Clark swallows, winces when that stirs up a pain in his throat. “Do you have any book recommendations? I figured I could do some reading while I’m in here.”

“You ever read any of K’hingi’s works?” John responds. “Xe can write a mean thriller. We’ve got a few of xir books on file.”

“K’hingi. No, I don’t think I have.” Clark tries for a smile. “Thank you.”

“No problem. You need anything, let us know.” John floats out of view, the vial of Clark’s spit in tow.

Hopefully it’s nothing. He probably won’t know anything until a couple of hours later – there’s no test that will unequivocally state “everything is fine” – so there’s no sense getting worked up about it.

Clark swallows again and tries not to think about the walls surrounding him.

~x~

“Well, it’s not nothing,” Bruce says through the screen in the Watchtower, an hour and a half after Clark entered quarantine on the ship.

“Great,” Clark says. His head hurts. His breathing feels funny, too, but he’s not sure if that’s because of whatever’s wrong with him or because he’s doing an abysmal job of not thinking about being _trapped trapped trapped there are walls all around him and he can’t leave he can’t move he can’t-_

Bruce had Clark Zeta Beamed to a long-term quarantine room, with a nice bed and a kitchenette that had clearly been stocked for him. It has his favorite cookies. He doesn’t remember ever telling anyone in the League that these were his favorite cookies. He’s trying to focus on the cookies and not the fact that he’s in a long-term rather than a short-term quarantine room, because ‘better safe than sorry’ might as well be Bruce’s middle name, along with ‘plan for the worst’ and ‘the toast always lands butter-side down.’

“If it’s not nothing,” Clark says, keeping his voice even, “do we know what it is?”

“Looks like a virus. Don’t know what it does. We’ve sent pictures back to Sesamos to see if any of their scientists can tell us what it is and what to expect.” Bruce shifts. “We’re running tests to see if it’s dangerous to non-Kryptonians. I’ll let you know when we get answers.”

“Okay.” Clark shifts. Is it too early to do this? Is it… no, he doesn’t care, he’s going to ask. “Can I… if I contact Lois, can we Zeta her up?” It’s late evening in Metropolis. She’ll still be awake. “I’d like to see her.”

“Of course,” Bruce says. Then, “She can’t come in with you.”

Clark frowns. “I know that.”

“Just checking.”

Clark puts his head in his hands. “Set up a line for me, please?”

“Already done.”

The phone Clark uses as Superman can access the network the Watchtower uses to make calls to Earth, so now all he has to do is speed-dial Lois and wait.

It rings three times, then there’s a click and Lois says “Lane.” She always answers that way when he calls her, in case the identity he’s speaking to her as is different from the identity attached to the phone number. It could get really weird if she answered a call by saying ‘Hey, Superman,’ and then started talking about whether there were any eggs at home. Better not to risk any eavesdroppers getting curious.

“Hey, Lois. It’s Clark,” he says.

Lois’s voice goes from professional deadpan to pleased surprise, and Clark feels light and fluttery to hear it. “Clark! You’re back sooner than I thought you would be. How was your vacation?”

“Pretty good.” Clark hesitates. Considers how much to say, and how to say it. Finally, he settles on “Do you think you could come up to the Watchtower?” It’s not an unusual request after off-planet missions. Standard decontamination procedures don’t work on him, and he’s always stuck on the Watchtower for a day after coming back from another world. He can tell her about… whatever this is when they can see each other.

“Well, I had planned to sit at home eating chocolate and watching bad TV, but I guess I could be convinced to come see you.” He can hear her grin in the lilt of her voice, see the way her eyes crinkle and her teeth flash. “See you soon. I love you, Clark.”

“I love you, Lois,” he says, and she hangs up. He remains still, tablet in hand, soaking in the feelings of love and comfort and safety her voice gives him like they’re sunlight. Better than sunlight, really – the quarantine is bathed in refracted rays from the sun, but the blah feeling hasn’t gone away. His throat also hurts worse than it did earlier, and the pain in his eyes has spread across his face in a domino mask of soreness.

This is not the funnest thing that’s ever happened to him.

It doesn’t take long for Lois to arrive. Bruce is accompanying her, still in costume. At least he’s lost the full-face mask. 

Clark, meanwhile, changed out of his costume when he was Zeta Beamed here. The rooms meant for long-term use are stocked with civilian clothing in a variety of sizes, because Bruce thinks of everything. Or maybe this was Alfred’s idea. Clark will have to ask, and then thank whoever came up with it, because the oversized sweats he’s currently sporting are an amazing change after six days of wearing his costume.

“Bruce told me what’s going on,” Lois says as Clark floats over. This room has only two transparent walls, one facing the observation room, one facing outside the Watchtower. The other two are solid. While not “good”, exactly, this is somehow better for his claustrophobia than the four transparent walls of the quarantine room on the ship were – he’d notice immediately if _these_ walls started closing in on him. Which is not the greatest reassurance, but he’s trying to be optimistic. “How are you doing?”

“Fine,” he says. Then, when Lois glares at him, he corrects it to, “I feel… not quite right. But it’s not the worst.”

“Not the worst. Faint praise, Smallville.” Lois places her hand on the glass, and he places his hand over hers… before pulling back with a grimace. “What?”

“That feels too ‘Wrath of Khan,’” he says. “Not something I really want to invoke, under the circumstances.”

“You are a gigantic nerd,” Lois says, but takes her hand off the glass. She turns to Bruce. “Just so we’re clear, I’m staying here tonight.”

“The couch pulls out into a bed. There’s bedding in the second drawer of the dresser,” Bruce says. “There’s a tablet on top of the dresser. The bathroom is down the hall and to the left. I assume you remember where the lift and the kitchens are.”

Lois bats her eyelashes at him. “You’re a peach.”

“Hrm.” Bruce stalks off. It’s his affectionate stalk.

Clark sits in midair, and Lois pulls up a chair. “I can’t give you chocolate through the glass, but we can look at a screen together. Wanna watch bad TV?” Lois offers.

“I’d like that,” Clark says.


	2. Chapter 2

When Clark wakes up, Lois is gone. He slept fitfully, a combination of sleeping in an unfamiliar space and an inability to get comfortable, so he’s doubly startled that her alarm didn’t wake him. It always wakes him. It’s horrible. It sounds like the railroad warning that a train is coming, put through a synthesizer and sped up until it can sterilize a frog at fifty paces.

There’s a note on the couch. Clark focuses on it – and finds that his vision blurs in and out several times before he can get a fix on the note. That’s not normal.

The note says,

_Clark,_

_The alarm didn’t wake you, so I figured nothing could until you got enough sleep that you woke up on your own. I’m off to work, but I’ll be back tonight. Call if you need anything. I mean it. If I find out you didn’t call me when you needed something I’ll boot your sorry spandex covered ass straight to Pluto._

_I love you,_

_Lois_

_P.S. Bruce says to ring the lab when you wake up. You’ll be fine._

Clark smiles fondly before hitting the appropriate buttons on the tablet and calling the lab. Voice call only – he has no idea how he looks right now, but he gets the feeling that his bedhead is prodigious.

“Barry’s Mortuary. You stab ‘em, we slab ‘em.”

“Ba –” Clark’s voice cuts out with a squeak. He winces and rubs his throat. It feels even worse than it did yesterday, somehow. Yesterday it felt sticky and sore. Today it feels raw and sore. And his headache has become a whole-head affair, and gotten his neck, shoulders, and back in on the action, too.

“Hello?” Barry says.

“Barry,” Clark tries again. The word comes out raspy and in a voice not quite Clark Kent’s, not quite Superman’s. But to hell with doing the voices, he’ll settle for being understood.

“Jeez, Supes, you sound rough.”

“Thanks,” Clark says. “I have a note that says to call the lab?”

“Yeah. We heard back from Sesamos. Apparently the planet used to be a Kryptonian colony world. There’s still a lot of biological matter there with Kryptonian origins – a few macrorganisms, lots of microorganisms. Near as we can guess, the virus is one of those.”

Kryptonian colony world. A few generations before the destruction of Krypton, all of the colony worlds had been abandoned as projects not worth the resources and time being put into them. How did a virus survive for that long? “Great. Do we know what it does?”

“Well, Bruce and I have been spitballing with Star Labs, messing with the virus and giving it some of your tissue samples to chew on, scanning you in your sleep, that sort of thing. From the look of it, you’ve got the Kryptonian version of a cold.”

Clark relaxes, tension he didn’t know he was carrying seeping out of his muscles. “A cold. That’s good news. Colds aren’t fatal.”

“Well, no, they’re not…” Barry trails off. Clark tightens up again. That was a very suspicious place to trail off.

“Barry…”

“It’s not fatal. Probably. But the thing is, you’ve never been sick. Your immune system doesn’t know what the heck it’s doing. You’re not exactly immune-compromised, but you’re kind of… immune-incompetent. Plus we still don’t know if it can make the jump to humans or Martians or anything else, so we’ve gotta keep you locked down.”

“Terrific.” Clark puts his head in his hands. “Are you testing to see if it can make the leap?”

“Yes and no. It’s a virus. It could mutate to the point where it would be able to jump from Kryptonians to another species at any point. We can give the current version cell samples from other species and see what it does with them, but that’s no guarantee you won’t become contagious.”

Clark’s brain feels fuzzy. He struggles to think of something, anything they’re missing that would mean he could get out of here sooner. “If it’s a Kryptonian virus, there could be records on it in… records… information on it in the databanks from my ship.”

“We’re checking that out now, but I dunno that we’ll find anything. The Kryptonians left Sesamos a while back, Supes. The virus had plenty of time to mutate in new and exciting ways.”

“ _Terrific._ ”

“Oh. Bruce said to ask. Is it screwing with your powers at all?”

Clark takes a steady breath, and tries flying. He wobbles a little, but he’s pretty sure that’s the dizziness, not a problem with his powers. He tries vibrating at super-speed – and bad, bad, that was a bad idea. Clark crashes to the floor, gasping. His vision is going in and out of focus again, and there’s a blackness creeping in at the corners. His ears are ringing. He curls into a ball.

“ –lark? Clark, you there? The monitors just went –” The tablet goes silent, and then Barry’s there, on the other side of the glass. Clark can see his boots. “Fuckershit! Clark, the fuck is happening?”

“Super-speed was a bad idea,” Clark manages.

“Don’t tell me you tried vibrating? You tried vibrating, oh for fuck’s sake! Why would you do that, that’s the worst thing!”

“So I’ve learned,” Clark says. His vision is clearing, slowly. He feels like a wrung-out towel.

“Ugh. Okay. Okay okay okay, it’s not your fault, your immune system isn’t the only part of you that doesn’t know what being sick is like, even though I think you should know better, with all the things you know, why would you try vibrating?” Clark sits up, and immediately wishes he hadn’t. His brain feels like it’s sliding out his ears and Barry has started pacing at superspeed, which kind of makes Clark feel nauseated.

“Barry, could you…?” Clark swallows, closes his eyes. “Too fast.”

“Fuck.” When Clark can no longer hear the hum of air being displaced, he opens his eyes. “This is so weird, man. I’ve never seen you look like this unless there’s like, Kryptonite or dairy or that one kind of perfume involved.”

“I’m not used to feeling like this, either,” Clark says. He carefully, carefully floats into the air until he’s high enough to put his legs down and stand up. “Do you have any suggestions on how to feel less terrible?”

“Well, what are your symptoms?” Barry asks.

“My brain feels… really slow,” Clark says. “My throat hurts. My head hurts. My back and shoulders and neck hurt. My skin feels… wrong. Like it’s too tight. And I’m dizzy.”

“Hot shower,” Barry says immediately. “Something warm to drink. And cartoons.”

“Got it,” Clark says.

“I’m trading watch duty with J’onn soon, by the way. STAR labs is saying I’m on loan to them for now, but there’s a couple cases that came in that my department wants me to have a look at.”

Clark mouths a few of the words absently as he tries to figure out what doesn’t sound right about Barry’s statement. “What time is it in Keystone City?” he asks.

“A little past one thirty.”

“In the afternoon?” Clark is appalled.

“Yeah. You were out, man.”

Clark almost shakes his head, then thinks better of it. No wonder he feels so weird. “I’m going to shower.”

“You do that. Any hey, feel better, Supes.”

“Thanks, Barry.”

~x~

The shower makes Clark feel… not normal, but better. Unfortunately, it also has the side effect of revealing that his headache is apparently made of pure concentrated congestion, because his nose starts running not long after he gets in the shower. He sniffles continuously and cuts his shower shorter than he would have liked because of his desperate need to blow his nose.

That is not a color he ever wanted to see his body produce. Clark wads up the toilet paper he blew his nose into and throws it in the trash.

He puts on a new pair of sweats, even bigger than yesterday’s, and rummages through the cabinets. He finds the hot chocolate mix where he remembers seeing it yesterday, reads the label out of habit, and begins using his heat vision to boil the appropriate amount of water.

The tickle in his nose manifests so rapidly he barely has time to turn away from anything breakable and do his best to stifle his sneezes into his hands. Once. Twice. Three times.

Something beeps. Intercom. “Clark, your vitals have spiked. Is all well?”

Clark opens his mouth to answer, then covers his face again as he sneezes a fourth time. He sniffles. “I’m okay, J’onn.” His voice sounds hoarser – the last sneeze pulled at his throat, in addition to bending him nearly double. He sniffles again and reaches for the box of tissues on the counter.

“Bless you,” J’onn says. “Is anything broken?”

Clark can feel himself flushing. Of all the many and varied ways his powers can inconvenience him, sneezing with super-breath is probably one of the most embarrassing. “No. It’s good.”

“I will continue to monitor you. Alert me if you need anything.”

Clark grabs a tissue from the box on the counter and blows his nose. “I will. Thank you.”

He finishes boiling the water and adds the hot chocolate mix. The powder sits in an unappealing mound on the surface of the water, so he stirs it with a finger while trying to figure out if there’s anything he actually wants to _eat_. Even the thought of cookies isn’t appealing. He’s been asleep for over fourteen hours, he’s just gotten back from a mission, he’s used his powers, and nothing seems like food. This is so very, very not normal. Clark sips the hot chocolate. The warmth soothes his throat, and he makes a mental note to thank Barry for the suggestion.

Eventually, he settles on eating applesauce out of the jar while lying in bed and flicking through the Watchtower’s movie collection. He’s in the mood for something… nostalgic. Not a new show, not a show he hasn’t seen before, something from when he was a kid or a teenager.

He settles on ‘Kiki’s Delivery Service.’

~x~

“Clark. Clark. Hey. Wake up.”

Clark opens his eyes, squinting against the light. It’s really bright in here. He should talk to someone about that. “Nnh?” he says, because words are beyond him at the moment.

“You can come home now. Come on, sleepyhead, you need to be vertical for the Zeta Beam.”

Lois. That’s Lois. And her voice isn’t distorted by glass or electronics, so she’s in the room with him. “Am I cured?” Clark asks, trying to get his eyes to stay open for long enough that he can track Lois’s voice.

“Not even close. I think you look worse. But whatever you have can’t infect anyone else, so you’re cleared to come back to Metropolis with me.”

Oh. He’s going to get to die in his own bed. That’s thoughtful. “That’s thoughtful,” Clark says.

“What’s – never mind. Come on, get up.” Lois tugs at his arm. Clark sits up and opens his eyes. The room blurs like he’s seeing it through a hundred filters, mist on his glasses and fog to the horizon. “There you go, now get off the bed and we can go home.”

Clark swings his legs over the side of the bed and rests his feet on the floor. The movement makes his vision tilt, and he makes a startled sound before squeezing his eyes shut and resting his head on his knees. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in… he’s not getting enough air through his nose, so he opens his mouth.

“Clark? Are you dizzy?” Lois sounds far away. Maybe she’s speaking into a reverse megaphone. He feels her hand on his back, rubbing up and down his spine. “It’s okay,” she says. “You’re okay.”

He doesn’t feel okay, but he appreciates the sentiment. His sense of gravity slowly slides back to normal, and he sits up. “Okay,” he says. “Take two.”

Lois has that concerned look that’s usually reserved for when he’s bleeding or bruised or suffering from Kryptonite poisoning. “Oh, baby,” she says. “You really don’t feel good, do you?”

“I really don’t,” Clark says. It comes out whinier than he intended. He’s having serious issues with his voice. “Can you… Can you help me up?”

“Sure thing.” Lois takes him by the forearms and helps haul him to his feet. She couldn’t move him if he didn’t want to be moved, but the extra pull is what he needs to get his muscles to engage. “We’re ready!” she calls out, and the quarantine room dissolves around them in a shower of bright light. Clark’s stomach lurches, and he immediately stumbles and almost falls when he and Lois materialize in his apartment.

“Whoa there,” Lois says, keeping a tight grip on his upper arm. “Let’s get you to bed, it’s not that far. You can do it.”

Clark thunks his head against Lois’s shoulder. He’s afraid to open his mouth to say ‘thank you’, because his stomach feels very unsettled, but he hopes she’ll get his message.

“Almost there,” Lois says, voice low and soothing. They cross the threshold to his bedroom. “There you go. That’s it.” She settles him down on his bed without turning the bedroom lights on. He appreciates that. The virus seems to have kicked his light sensitivity into high gear, and even the dim bulbs in his living room were overwhelming, to say nothing of the sunlight-flooded Watchtower. 

Clark fumbles with the covers, wriggles underneath them when he finally manages to get them untucked from beneath his pillows. Why’d he think making his bed before he left was a good idea? All making the bed does is keep him from getting into the bed, and getting into the bed is the whole point of beds. Clark draws his knees towards his chest. He feels… cold. Why does he feel cold? He never feels cold. He’s been in the vacuum of space and not felt cold.

Lois strokes his forehead. “I’m going to get you some water, okay? Do you want something to eat?”

Clark swallows against the resurgence of nausea at the mention of eating. “No food,” he mumbles. “You stay.”

“J’onn told me that all you had to drink today was a glass of water and a mug of hot chocolate. I won’t make you eat, but you’re going to drink something or you’re going to feel worse.” Lois takes her hand away and starts to turn, but Clark rolls over, grabs her wrist.

“Please, Lois?” he says. He’s finally allowed to touch her again, be near her without a wall separating them and she’s leaving already? “Don’t go.” Clark feels the static prickling of tears rising in his eyes. He’s self-aware enough to realize that he’s being ridiculous, irrational, but that makes him want to cry even more.

“Shh, Clark, it’s okay,” Lois says. “I’m staying the night here. I’ll come right back once I’ve poured you some water, and then we can cuddle, okay?”

Cuddling. Cuddling is nice. And though Lois has perpetually cold toes, her body is usually fairly warm. That will be extra nice. Clark lets his fingers slip off of Lois’s wrist, sets his arm down across the bedspread. “Okay.”

“I love you.” Lois leans over and kisses Clark’s cheek. His eyes drift shut.

When he opens them again, Lois is tapping his arm. “’m awake,” he says, and struggles to sit up so he can accept the glass of water she’s holding. Swallowing makes him feel like there’s gravel scratching down the inside of his throat, and he makes a face.

“Sore throat?” Lois asks, and Clark nods minutely. “Baby,” she says sympathetically, and runs her fingers through his hair. He leans into the touch – and accidentally spills the water all over himself.

It soaks through his borrowed sweatshirt faster than he’d expect, making the fabric cling to his skin and sending a chill straight through his sternum to his spine. The shock of cold makes him start coughing, and he manages to spill more water over himself before Lois can grab the glass away. Then it’s all he can do to cover his face so he doesn’t blow things around the room, because super-breath is _the worst_. The coughs come faster and faster until he’s bent over his knees, barely able to catch a breath between coughs. They’re deep and rough, pulled from the bottom of his lungs and shaking through him so hard it’s all he can do to remain semi-upright. At some point, Lois starts stroking his back, but he can’t react, too caught up in the coughing fit.

Slowly, the coughs peter out, and Clark tries not to gulp air too desperately in case he triggers another round. His face is wet from tears produced by the force of the coughing. His throat feels like it’s been thoroughly scrubbed with steel wool. Lois is still stroking him, rubbing little circles up and down his back. Clark whimpers. He can’t help it.

“I know, sweetie,” Lois says. She starts petting his hair again. “Are you okay? Do we need to get you back to the Watchtower?”

Clark shakes his head. “I’m better now,” he rasps, cringing at the sound of his own voice. “Just cold.”

“Let’s get you into a dry shirt. Can you take that off while I go find something?” Lois asks. Clark nods. “I’m going to need to turn on the lights to go through your dresser, okay?” Clark nods again, and starts the arduous process of removing the sweatshirt. His muscles do not want to cooperate, and once the sweatshirt is off, he starts shivering. Tiny tremors, at first, but then his teeth begin chattering and he has to force his body to tense in order to stave off the shaking when Lois turns away from the dresser.

“Here, let me help you into this,” Lois says, and holds out a heavy nightshirt so that Clark can slip it over his head. His teeth stop chattering when he gets his arms into the sleeves, but occasional shivers still travel through his body. “Can you drink the rest of the water?” Lois asks.

Clark nods. He does feel kind of dehydrated, now that he’s been thinking about it. Water would be good. Water to drink. Not water on his body. He’s had enough of that.

Lois keeps her hand around the base of the glass as Clark drinks from it, keeping it steady despite his shaking fingers. Exhaustion hits him like a freight train as soon as he empties the glass. “I think… I need to sleep now,” he says, swaying a little. He shouldn’t need to sleep. He’s been sleeping all day. But apparently no one told his body that.

“Alright. Lay back, I’ll cuddle you to sleep.”

Clark scoots back under the covers, turns on his side. Lois gets the lights and then lays down behind him and drapes an arm over his chest. “My poor baby,” she murmurs. “I’ll take care of you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clark loses his voice. Bruce is losing his mind.

When Clark opens his eyes, Bruce is sitting in a chair by the bed, reading a book. The chair is from the kitchen. Clark has never seen the book before. Bruce is also wearing normal clothes – well, normal billionaire clothes. Clark is fairly certain that Bruce’s cream-colored sweater costs more than his monthly rent, and he doesn’t even want to know what the black suit pants cost.

“Good morning,” Bruce says.

“’morning,” Clark says. Well. He tries to. It comes out as a raspy little wheeze. He clears his throat and tries again, but fares no better.

“You sound like hell,” Bruce says. He pauses. “You look like hell, too.”

Clark sits up, signs ‘Thanks,’ and tries to scowl. But that’s too much for his body to handle all at once, apparently, because his headache makes itself suddenly and violently known. Clark lets out a little cry and folds over, digging his fingers into his temples. Everything hurts. Everything hurts. Everything –

Bruce is petting Clark’s head. Hesitantly, but he’s definitely doing it, dragging his fingertips along Clark’s scalp in a way that eases some of the pain and tension. “Take it easy,” Bruce says.

Clark stays folded over until he adjusts to the pain. Semi-adjusts. He’s getting there. Then he unfolds, looks at Bruce, and signs ‘Why are you here?’

“Lois needed to go to work,” Bruce says. “She didn’t want you left alone.”

Clark had guessed that much, but what he really wants to know is if Lois specifically selected Bruce for the task of babysitting him, or if Bruce volunteered. But if Bruce wanted him to know that, then Bruce would have said it.

See. Clark can be taught. He’s learning that Bruce communicates by not saying things at least as much as he communicates by saying things.

‘How did you figure out it was safe for me to come back?’ Clark signs. He had wondered about it some last night, but had been too tired and relieved to come home to really question it.

Bruce carefully places a bookmark in between the pages he’s reading and shuts the book. He sets it on Clark’s nightstand as he says “The virus works by taking advantage of a mechanism unique to your cells. It’s highly unlikely that it will ever change drastically enough to infect any non-Kryptonian.”

Clark considers this, then signs ‘Really highly unlikely or guaranteed to happen because of who we are as people highly unlikely?’

“STAR Labs, J’onn, John, the best scientists from Themyscira and Sesamos, and I were all confident enough that you aren’t going to unleash the next great plague that we let you out of quarantine ‘highly unlikely.’” Bruce says.

‘Okay,’ Clark signs. ‘That’s pretty unlikely.’

“Mm.” Bruce stands. “I have instructions to make sure you remain hydrated and to try to make you eat something.”

Clark considers this, then signs ‘I guess I could be hungry?’

“Good. Alfred sent me over with several containers of soup. Would you prefer chicken and rice, duck, minestrone, or black bean?”

‘Chicken and rice?’ Clark signs back hesitantly. He’s… pretty sure that’s the closest to what people are supposed to eat when they’re sick. Not that he doubts Alfred’s culinary knowledge. Alfred is an excellent cook, and probably knows more about what sick people are supposed to eat. Clark’s just… not interested in trying new things right now.

“I’ll heat it up,” Bruce says. He leaves.

Clark stretches, very carefully. His muscles ache, and he feels… strangely disoriented. Like there’s something… missing in his perceptions of the world. It’s not until he hears Bruce pour soup into a pot and turn on the stove that he realizes what it is.

His sense of smell is gone.

Well.

That’s fun.

Clark decides to try standing. He feels a little wobbly, but not that bad. Apparently sleeping for almost an entire day did him good. He continues stretching, trying to work the soreness out of his muscles, and is about to try getting changed into some vaguely decent clothes when he hears someone scream “Superman, help!”

He hesitates. Super-speed messed him up yesterday… but that could be because he was vibrating in place and not going anywhere. And it’s not like he can tell Bruce to go take care of it – if word got out that Batman was in Metropolis, Gotham would descend into chaos in a heartbeat. And he definitely can’t ignore it.

Clark strips, pulls his costume on, brushes his teeth and drenches his hair in product so it’ll hopefully _stay flat for ten minutes_ , clears his throat several times and hopes he can get his voice to work, and launches out the bathroom window.

Twenty seconds. Not even close to his current record, but he was trying to take it easy. Clark’s glad to notice that his powers and his other senses still seem to be working fine as he soars towards the origin of the scream.

He sees someone, tall, white, brandishing a gun and saying some deeply vile things to a middle-aged person in a powder pink business suit. The main thread of the aggressor’s vitriolic tirade is that Superman isn’t going to come running for something as minor as this, for someone like them.

You’d think people would _learn_.

“Hi,” he says, as he lands behind the aggressor. His voice comes out a little raspy, but it comes out, and that’s the important part. The aggressor turns, points their gun at him on reflex – exactly what he wanted. He’d much rather they shoot him than their intended victim. “How about you and I take a little trip?” He reaches forwards, crushes the barrel of the gun in one hand and grabs the aggressor by the waistband of their pants. Then he takes off, turns towards the nearest police station, and deposits the aggressor and their mangled weapon in front of a couple of cops who don’t even look surprised to see him.

“Hey, Superman,” one of them says. “We’ll take it from here.”

Superman gives them a half-wave, half-salute, and returns to the person who called for help. “Hey. Are you okay?”

They nod.

“The police are going to want your statement at some point. Do you want me to come with you when you give it?”

They shake their head.

“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.” His voice gets a little squeaky on the last word, and his throat has been getting progressively sorer the more he talks. Clark rubs his neck, eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you okay?” the person asks him.

“Yeah. Just a little…” and his voice cuts out entirely. Clark clears his throat, to no avail. The only sounds he can make are tiny, raspy squeaks. He wonders if it would be rude to fly away and just hide forever.

“Lemon and honey for a sore throat. Try ginger, too, if you’re feeling congested or feverish,” the person tells him authoritatively. They have the kind of voice that makes Clark think they’re probably a parent. “I didn’t know you could get sick.”

Clark shrugs.

“Now, you get going! Feel better soon!” they say, and make shooing motions at him. “Don’t you worry about me, I’m fine now.”

Clark gives them the salute-wave and flies off.

Bruce is waiting for him when Clark lands in the bathroom.

“I didn’t say ‘don’t fly off,’ but I thought that was implied by you being _sick_ ,” Bruce growls. “Am I going to have to tie you to the bed?”

Clark doesn’t need to look in the mirror to know that he’s redder than his cape. Hopefully Bruce will just assume that’s because he’s embarrassed he got caught, and not also because of the thought of Bruce tying him to the bed. Because that thought, is. Um. Clark shakes his head slowly, and signs ‘Someone called for help.’

“Were you hurt?” Bruce asks.

‘I’m Superman.’

“Were. You. Hurt.” Bruce practically snarls the worlds.

‘No! It was just some jerk.’

“There could have been kryptonite, Clark,” Bruce says. With each word, he gets a little closer to Clark, and Clark finds himself backing up so Bruce doesn’t stand on his toes. “Do you have any idea what kryptonite could do to you in this state?” Clark’s back hits the window, but Bruce keeps coming. “I don’t. And I don’t care to find out.”

Bruce is very close. There’s less than half a foot between their faces. Clark is entranced by Bruce’s eyelashes. They’re short, but thick, a deep, dark black that complements the deep, dark brown of Bruce’s irises.

Clark has just enough warning to push Bruce away before he bends over, hands clapped around his mouth and nose as he stifles four sneezes. Four. Again. He hopes this isn’t a pattern.

“Bless you,” Bruce says. “Go lay down. Now.”

Clark obeys, and Bruce throws a box of tissues at him before stalking back off to the kitchen.

~x~

“So Bruce,” Lois had said over the phone last night. “You don’t have a job.”

“I’m the CEO of a multinational corporation with over a dozen major divisions,” Bruce had said.

“Right. But that’s not a job.”

“I’m also Batman.”

“So you don’t have a day job,” she amended. “I need you to come over and watch Clark while I’m at work tomorrow.”

“Clark is an adult,” Bruce said.

“Clark has never been sick before. And he’s _Clark_.”

That was, Bruce had to admit, a compelling argument. “Why me?” he asked. “I doubt I’m known for bedside manner.”

“John, Hal, Barry, and Dinah have day jobs, Diana needs to be able to leave and lead the League if there’s an emergency, I love Shayera but she probably wins the ‘worst bedside manner’ contest, and I don’t want to treat J’onn like the League errand boy just because they don’t have an Earth identity.”

“Treating me like the League errand boy is better.”

“You’re not a League member. You’re an independent contractor.”

Bruce regretted every single time he had ever said that. And then he agreed to nursemaid Superman.

He hadn’t expected Clark to fly out the window as soon as he turned his back, but then again, he absolutely should have. There was no indication that the virus would do anything to impede Clark’s hearing, and Clark has never been able to stand by when he knows people are in trouble.

Bruce could strangle him.

That would probably be a violation of his ‘watch over Clark’ mission.

Still.

The lack of protests from Clark when Bruce ordered him back to bed makes Bruce think that his poorly thought out rescue took a lot out of him. No one’s sure how the virus is going to interact with his powers, and even if there’s no interaction, which Bruce doubts will be the case, Clark’s powers still consume a lot of energy. Normally, this just means that Clark could probably eat his own body weight in peanut butter without gaining a pound. When he’s sick, though…

Bruce hears coughing from the bedroom and resists the urge to run in and check on Clark. If the coughing persists for more than a minute or sounds like it’s doing damage, then he’ll go in. But he can’t get jumpy over every little thing. Clark’s Superman. He can handle it.

Clark continues coughing.

Bruce decides that Superman or not, Clark should not have to handle this alone.

When Bruce gets into the bedroom, Clark is sitting on the bed in an uncomfortable-looking hunched over position. He hasn’t changed out of his Superman costume, and it is somehow more jarring to see Clark with his hair slowly breaking free of its styling, skin waxy and pale, coughing his lungs out into his hands while wearing the red, gold, and blue.

Bruce pats Clark on the back. “I brought you water. Do you think that’ll help?”

Clark shakes his head. The coughs seem to be coming less frequently, now. When Clark finally raises his head, Bruce notes that his eyes are slightly red-rimmed and have deep shadows beneath them, his nose is very pink, and his lips are chapped. In short, he looks sick.

Bruce doesn’t like it.

‘Thank you,’ Clark signs, and reaches for the water. Bruce hands it to him.

“You should wash your hair,” he says. “You don’t want to get… whatever that is all over the pillows.”

Clark puts the water on the nightstand after taking a sip and signs, ‘You told me to go lie down.’

“Now I’m telling you to wash your hair,” Bruce says. “Can you do that?”

‘I think so,’ Clark signs, and picks up the water again. He’s drinking it very slowly and carefully. The way his throat moves is… hypnotic.

“Good. Your soup is nearly done. I want your hair washed and you out of your costume by the time I get back with it.” Bruce has, on occasion, imagined telling Clark to get out of his costume. These were not the circumstances under which he envisioned it occurring. It is still vaguely thrilling to say.

Clark nods.

Bruce walks out of the room, affecting his normal, casual stalk, though he feels far from normal or casual.

He’s had an… attraction to Clark since they met. Clark is an attractive person, in both his guises. It’s not unreasonable. What is unreasonable is the way that he thinks about Clark even when Clark isn’t there. The way that he desires Clark’s attention even above attention from other people. The way that he wants to be near Clark.

It was bad enough when he just felt this way about Selina. Then it got worse when he started feeling this way about Lois.

And now…

Bruce stirs the soup aggressively and it makes a blorping noise at him. How appealing.

Now he has… some kind of _feelings_ for all three of them.

It’s very inconvenient.

He hears Clark stifle a flurry of sneezes. Were Clark anyone else, Bruce would scold him for stifling. The last thing Clark needs right now is a burst eardrum. But considering the super-breath and the damage an uncovered sneeze could do… Bruce really ought to work on some kind of solution for that. It seems like the courteous thing to do. In the meantime, he calls “Bless you,” towards the open bedroom door.

The soup seems done. Bruce pours it into the bowl he’d taken out of Clark’s cabinet earlier, sticks a spoon in it. The spoon has a thick blue plastic handle with a little Superman symbol on the end. The bowl is white ceramic with tiny bunnies painted on it.

It’s charming, in a kitschy way.

… Did he really just think that?

Bruce is absolutely fucked.

He doesn’t remember hearing the shower go on, but when he returns to the bedroom, Clark’s hair is in damp ringlets and he’s wearing an honest-to-God set of flannel pajamas, so. A shower happened. Bruce was just too distracted to register it, which is honestly kind of alarming. He needs to notice things. Stay alert.

Clark looks very tired. He keeps trying to hide yawns behind his wrist, and it’s precious, and…

Oh.

And Bruce loves him.

Bruce loves Clark.

And if these feelings Bruce has been having for Clark are love, then that means he also loves Lois. And Selina.

Bruce thinks it is a testament to his training and willpower that he doesn’t drop the bowl of soup on the floor.

“Thank you!” Clark says. His voice is barely above a whisper, and there’s genuine delight in his eyes. He reaches for the soup, and Bruce hands it over.

“Rest your voice,” he says. He’s on automatic. Autopilot. Batman has left the building. Batman is jumping off the building. Batman is plummeting to the pavement.

Clark nods and eats a spoonful of the soup. His eyes go wide, and he almost starts flapping his hands before remembering at the last second that he is holding hot soup.

“Good?” Bruce asks. Clark nods frantically. “I’ll have Alfred send you the recipe.”

Clark smiles. As he continues eating, Bruce tries to process this… revelation. His feelings for Selina, Lois, and Clark are love. Great. What’s he supposed to do about that? He knows that Lois has expressed an interest in dating Selina, which implies that there’s a polyamorous aspect to Lois and Clark’s relationship, but it’s one thing for him to know that and quite another thing entirely for him to try to shove himself into their relationship. Into any relationship. Bruce doesn’t do relationships, for one. Not long-term relationships. He does casual things, a string of a dozen dates at most. He’s never asked for anything more, never pretended otherwise. This is…

New.

Unattainable.

Unrealistic.

Bruce knows what love is. Love is dying in an alleyway, hand in hand. Love is folding yourself against your partner’s cooling body and waiting to join them in whatever comes after. Love is… love is…

Love is for other people.

Not him.

Well. At least he knows what his feelings are. Not knowing made them that much stronger. He has correctly identified and categorized his feelings now, and they will thus be easier to deal with.

Clark sets the empty soup bowl on the nightstand and waves to get Bruce’s attention. ‘I think I’m going to sleep,’ he signs.

“Good idea,” Bruce says. He picks up the bowl. “I’ll take care of this. Sleep well.”

Clark yawns hugely, and Bruce hears his jaw pop. ‘Thank you,’ Clark signs, and scoots underneath the covers.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's gay.

Bruce is trying to read the book he brought with him when he hears a half thud, half squeaking crash from Clark’s room. He throws the book down and runs in.

Clark is laying on the mattress, his eyes open but glazed in a way that suggests he’s not all the way aware of his surroundings. He’s shivering violently, and there’s sweat on his forehead. He starts when Bruce deliberately steps on a squeaky section of the floor to make his presence known, but doesn’t otherwise react like he recognizes anything that’s going on.

Bruce pauses in the doorway. That’s as close as he’s going to get before he can figure out how conscious Clark is. “Clark? Do you know where you are?”

“Home?” Clark asks, voice squeaking upward at the end of the word.

“Yes. Do you know who I am?”

“Bruce,” Clark says. He shudders, and thick tears begin rolling down his face. “I thought… I thought…”

Clark is not a Robin. Clark is not a child to be held when he has nightmares. Bruce does it anyway, crosses the room and hefts Clark’s head so Clark can press his face into Bruce’s abdomen. Clark also grabs onto Bruce’s sweater with both hands, squeezing so hard his knuckles go white. Bruce lets him, strokes his hair the way Lois told him to. “You were dreaming,” Bruce says. “You’re not dreaming anymore.”

Clark lets out a ragged sob.

“You’re not dreaming,” Bruce says. Clark is usually warm to the touch. He averages a temperature of around 102 degrees Fahrenheit, under normal circumstances. But now, it’s actually uncomfortable for Bruce to be in contact with Clark’s skin, he’s so warm. Like asphalt on a summer day. Bruce is going to have to try doing something to get his fever down – cold cloths, probably, because who knows what human fever reducers will do.

Clark sniffles thickly.

“There. I’m here.” Bruce continues stroking his hair. “I’m here.”

~x~

Bruce discovers, through trial and error, that he cannot leave the bedroom for long when Clark is sleeping or Clark panics. He theorizes it has something to do with Clark’s senses being muted or jumbled due to the virus – Clark is used to being able tell when people are within a certain distance of him, and if he can’t sense anyone, he thinks he’s alone. Bruce has nothing to base this theory on besides assumptions that this virus works similarly to a human rhinovirus and Clark’s behavior, but he’s not going to try to wake Clark up and run tests on the various aspects of his distress.

Lois gets home at nine. From the sound of her footfalls and the way she fumbles with her keys, she’s carrying something. Bruce does not get up. Clark is still sleeping.

“Hey, I’m back!” Lois calls, and Clark twitches. Then he smiles in his sleep, a slow curling of his lips and a softening around his eyes.

Bruce resists the urge to thunk his head down into his book.

It’s a near thing.

Bruce hears the rustle of grocery bags, the heavy clack of cans being set down on a hard surface.

“You guys awake?” Lois calls.

“Clark’s not,” Bruce says, trying to pitch his voice so it will carry without being too loud. Clark wrinkles his nose and pulls the blankets higher. Great. Lois’s voice elicits a smile, Bruce’s voice is something to get away from.

He’s not jealous.

He’s _not_.

Lois enters the bedroom. “Jeez, did he wake up at all today?”

“Once. And there were a few times when he was sort of... between consciousness and sleep.” That’s the best Bruce can classify the episodes where Clark panicked because Bruce wasn’t in the room.

Lois bites her lower lip. Strange, how now that he’s aware of what his feelings are, what it means that he’s so drawn to observe her, he can’t stop thinking about it. This is not what he thought would happen. “That’s not normal, is it?”

“He’s not from this planet,” Bruce says. “We have no way of knowing what’s normal for a Kryptonian under these conditions.” No way of knowing, either, if the yellow sun makes the virus stronger, too. Under normal circumstances, the thought would seem ridiculous, but. Alien. Kryptonian. Clark. All very unpredictable variables. “However, he did respond to a ‘Superman, help’ not long after waking up, so the use of his powers likely contributed to his exhaustion.”

“Cl-” Lois begins in a loud, scolding tone, then drops to an angry stage-whisper, “Clark, you… you… buffoon!”

Bruce raises an eyebrow at her. “Buffoon?”

“Clark’s a bad influence,” Lois says defensively, brandishing her keys at him.

“He’s a bad influence because… he makes you swear less?” Bruce asks.

“How do you know I was going to swear?” Lois asks. “Maybe I was going to say ‘buffoon’ all along.”

“The previous parts of this conversation render that an unlikely hypothesis,” Bruce says.

“Oh, you can shove your fancy words up your ass,” Lois says. “But seriously, what was he thinking?”

“I have yet to master telepathy. However, this being Clark, I assume he spared a moment to contemplate the potential effects on his wellbeing, decided that ignoring a call for help was unacceptable regardless of the consequences, and then went off to save the day.”

Lois groans. Clark grumbles and rolls over, turning his back to the pair of them.

“Should we continue this discussion in the kitchen?” Lois asks.

Bruce’s mouth twitches to the side in an expression that’s not quite a grimace. “Clark has nightmares if someone isn’t in the room with him. This discussion will need to stay here, unless you want to try waking him up.”

Lois shifts her weight from foot to foot, considering. Then “He needs sleep, but he needs to eat, too. I’m going to wake him.” She crosses the floor with a confidence that indicates a deep familiarity with the space. Bruce makes a note to expect that Lois and Clark will be moving in together within the year. “Hey, Clark,” she says. She touches him lightly, carefully, on the shoulder over the blankets, and frowns. “He’s warmer than he was this morning.”

“I noticed,” Bruce says. “I considered putting a cold cloth on his forehead, but I didn’t want him to wake up to that.” In their line of work, coming out of unconsciousness due to a sudden shock generally hits all the panic buttons. That wouldn’t be good for Clark or for Bruce.

“We’ll just get one on him when he wakes up. C’mon, baby.” Lois shakes Clark’s shoulder gently. “Time to get up. Wake up, Clark.”

Clark makes a quiet noise, similar to the sound cats make when they’re touched unexpectedly. A little murmuring trill that can’t really be captured in human linguistic systems, like many of the sounds Clark makes in his less self-conscious moments. 

Bruce has heard Clark mutter things to himself in Kryptonese a few times. Hearing the sounds Clark can make, the incredible range of vocalizations at his command, is somehow more a reminder of Clark’s alien origin than his superpowers have ever been. It’s… fascinating. Not for the first time, Bruce wonders if he could wrap his tongue around the crackles of Kryptonese, get the right cadence for the trills and the right length on the hisses. It is not a language designed for human vocal abilities, but that doesn’t mean he can’t try.

“Clark. It’s time to wake up, sweetheart,” Lois says. Her body is blocking Bruce’s view, but still, Bruce can _feel_ it when Clark wakes up. “There you go. Hi, baby. How’re you feeling?”

“Tired,” Clark rasps. “Happy to see you.”

“I want you to try to be awake for a little bit, okay?”

“Okay.” The sheets rustle. “Is Bruce..?”

“Still here,” Bruce confirms. Lois steps aside. Clark’s bedhead is truly remarkable. He looks like a perturbed cockatiel. He also looks very ill.

Clark sniffles and scrubs at his nose with the back of his hand. “Uh. I think I might have… freaked out on you?”

“You had nightmares if I wasn’t in the room with you,” Bruce confirms. That phrasing renders Bruce more central to the whole affair than he’d like – Clark had nightmares because he thought he was alone, not because Bruce, specifically, wasn’t there – but ‘you had nightmares if you thought you were alone’ is imprecise and presumptive. He doesn’t truly know if that’s why Clark had nightmares, after all.

“Sorry,” Clark says.

“Don’t be,” Bruce replies.

Clark opens his mouth, as if to respond, then ducks down and presses his face into his hands to sneeze. And sneeze. And sneeze. Four times, again. Bruce thinks this qualifies as a pattern. He wonders if it’s a specific symptom of this particular virus or just a sick-Clark thing.

“Bless you,” he says, just a half-beat ahead of Lois.

“Thanks,” Clark says from the shelter of his hands. His voice sounds rougher and more congested than before. Lois passes him a tissue and he blows his nose.

“Are you feeling up to coming to the kitchen?” Lois says. Then, “Don’t give me that look,” when Clark narrows his eyes at her. “You slept all day. I’m just checking in.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” Clark says, all irritation melting from his features. “I’m just not used to being so… so…”

‘Helpless’ is probably the word Clark is looking for, or ‘weak,’ but Bruce absolutely knows better than to suggest them.

“I know,” Lois says, and strokes Clark’s head. He leans into it, eyes fluttering shut. “Come on, let’s get some food in you.”

Clark takes the quilt with him when he leaves the bedroom, wrapping it around his shoulders like a cape. Bruce is well aware that this is a common behavior among sick people. But somehow, the fact that Clark regularly wears an actual cape makes his blanket-cape more… absurd? Cute? Bruce isn’t sure. It’s definitely making him feel some sort of way.

It’s really quite inconvenient.

~x~

Bruce watches Clark for the remainder of his convalescence, which winds up being four days. Clark’s still symptomatic, but he’s no longer feverish, no longer sleeping for vast stretches. He still has a cough, some congestion, and sneezes frequently, but is not in need of constant care.

Bruce doesn’t miss it.

He doesn’t. He’s glad Clark is doing better. It’s certainly better than the alternative. He doesn’t want to contemplate a world without Superman.

But he also can’t stop thinking about the way Clark looks when he first wakes up. The way Lois touches Clark with an easy familiarity and affection. The way…

He’ll get through this. No feeling can last forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes it can.


End file.
